


Someday at Christmas

by Lymphadei



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Christmas fic, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Romance, mild violence, not as bleak as it sounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 05:44:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5485772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lymphadei/pseuds/Lymphadei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is a homeless young man with a rough life, that is, until he meets a stranger on Christmas Eve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Someday at Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Odin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Odin/gifts).



> I swear, it's only kind of depressing in the beginning, but the rest makes up for it. In love my John whump, I can't help it! 
> 
> Disclaimer: The name from this title comes from a Stevie Wonder song called "Someday at Christmas". I thought it most appropriate for this little ditty.

"What've you got there, mate? Anything you'd like to share with the rest of us poor blokes?"

The voice wasn't unexpected, but John felt his brain go offline, all the same. He thought he'd gotten lucky when some old biddy threw away a treasure trove of stale candies and bread on the precipice of expiry. It would have been the first meal John ate in a day and a half. 

His stomach grumbled viciously and he rubbed it with fingers sticky with sugar and grime. 

As much as he avoided Alfie's regular haunts, John found himself stumbling into trouble where the thug was concerned more often than was healthy. Alfie almost always found a way to make John's night go from bad to suicidal in under five minutes.

Alfie swaggered towards the huddled figure with his two minions, Tweedledum and Tweedledee, flanking him on either side. "Look at you," he sneered, "keepin' all the goods for yourself. Can you believe the selfish little bastard, Robbie?" 

The one on the left, a tall and lanky fellow with a horse face and teeth to match, looked on with that malicious gleam John had already become familiar with. He shook his head, rattling the imitation gold chain thrown around his long neck. The skin beneath was green and irritated from the corroding copper reacting with his sweat; it just added to his overall smarmy veneer.

"Sounds 'bout right, Alf. What do you think we ought to do 'bout it?" The question held an abundance of possibilities, and John shivered at the thought of every single one of them. Either way, it wasn't going to be good.

Alfie bent down to John's level, and the smaller male sunk back into the skip he was leant against, releasing a tremulous breath as he pulled his horde closer to his body. "Show us what you got, Johnny, and maybe we won't mess wiv ya."

It was really a no-brainer. Give them what he found, and John wouldn't get the shite kicked out of him that night, and if he was lucky, the next night, too. Really, though, John hadn't had a meal all day, and he was starving. Before he could restrain himself, his head was shaking vigorously in the negative. He certainly would not be giving up his food to these three lowlife berks; not when he'd seen this lot sitting in McDonald's happily snacking on Quarter Pounders, not thirty minutes prior.

Alfie puffed out a laugh incredulously, rubbing a hand over his aquiline nose as he looked back to his henchman. "'No', he says! Can you believe this arsehole?" Alfie turns back chuckling, but John can see the tick in his jaw that informs him the thug is anything but amused.

John doesn't even have the chance to get away, before a large, beefy fist is making a beeline for his face. 

John sees stars, and not the nice, pretty little ones in the sky, but the type that tells him he's been knocked a new one. The pain is unbelievable, and John thinks his nose just might be broken, but his disoriented state does nothing to deter his attacker. 

Robbie and Rory are there now, holding his slack body up while Alfie pummels him like a Heavy Bag. The thug goes for a jab in the gut, and John feels the breath whoosh from his lungs in one sharp exhale. There's blood in the back of his throat now, and John can feels his eyes bulging from lack of oxygen.

If this is how he dies, then so be it. He can't help but think of the end when it feels like it's so close, but just when it's in his grasp, like always, Alfie let's up.

"... fucking, cock-sucking shirt lifter! Don't ever say no to me!" John slowly sinks back into the present, ears ringing as the man screams in his face, accompanied by flying spittle that hits John's cheek in tiny splatters. 

Tweedledum and Tweedledee drop his arm unceremoniously, and John slumps onto the urine soaked ground. He hears their steps echoing through the alley as they retreat, and Alfie's loud, obnoxious voice proclaiming his outrage. 

John doesn't know how much time passes before he can drag his body to sit up against the skip. His only thought is that his food might be gone, and if it was, what was he going to eat for the night?

His sigh is resigned when John sees that the stale bread, along with the handful of candies he'd dug up have 'mysteriously' disappeared. 

The cold air is a whip on his bruised skin, and John winces in discomfort as he hoists his stiff body carefully from the dirty cement.

John could only think of one solution to his food problem. The thought made him gag, but the rumble of his empty stomach pushed all of his complaints to the back of his mind. He would have to find a public bathroom and patch himself up, scrub down and throw on his street clothes.

It wasn't the first time John had to sell his body for money, but some nights, it paid for the meals, and if he was very lucky, maybe a roof over his head on the cold evenings. 

John grabbed his pack he kept hidden in a darkened corner of the alley, and limped to the mouth of the opening, peeking round the corner where Alfie and his motley crew might be lingering. 

John pulls his threadbare coat tighter around his body, in the meantime, getting a whiff of his own sour scent. Unless he got to a loo to wash up, he wouldn't be getting any business that night. Thankfully, he's not far from a place where the shopkeeper is a kindly woman who has a penchant for indulging the young strays. 

He ambled the rest of the way there, keeping his head down and the sight of his bloody nose away from curious eyes. The smell of pastries and peppermint sweets wafted temptingly just beneath his nose, like a lighthouse in the distance; a saving grace, and all John could think of was what he was going to buy once he had a pocket full of cash. Oh, the possibilities. First, a hot sandwich to fill his empty stomach and a nice, soothing cup of herbal tea to warm his lips. Maybe a bit of cider to ease him into the spirit of the holiday. He nearly salivated at the thought.

It was Christmas Eve so the streets were nearly empty and the shops closed up early for the night. Christmas lights hung in the multitudes from flat windows and balconies, and the Salvation Army volunteers were standing post in front of grocery stores. A few stragglers walked briskly to and fro, but for the most part, the pavement was littered with people like him, waiting for a Christmas miracle. Somewhere off in the distance, a violin softly sang Silent Night, a quiet morose tune that lulled John into introspection as he walked to his destination. 

Fortunately, it wasn't too late to catch his favourite shopkeeper, and John swung inside, exhaling at the warmth that immediately fell over him like a sheepskin throw. It reminded him of easier days playing Cluedo with Harry in front of a toasty fire, and hot chocolate flowing silkenly down his gullet while they waited up for old Saint Nick. 

"John," the middle-aged woman greeted him enthusiastically, not looking at all out of place behind the counter of her store, filled wall-to-wall with odd trinkets and rare old books that John would have once found himself intrigued by. Now, he didn't have much time for such fanciful notions. "What can I do you for, love?" 

The store itself was lovely and festive; garland was strung from corner to corner and cheery, multicolored lights weaved in and out, blinking brightly. A Christmas tree stood proudly in the center of the store, the base sprinkled with fluffy, white cotton and perfectly wrapped boxes. Soft holiday music played from the radio behind the counter, a chorus that John vaguely recalled from his childhood. The woman staring expectantly back at him was dressed as Mrs Clause, complete with a Santa hat and half-moon spectacles. 

John stopped a few feet away from the counter, conscious of his ripe body odor and haggard appearance. He didn't want to involve her, but John could really use a proper wash. "Miss Morstan," he nodded politely, giving her a tentative smile. He could see her lips teetering on the edge of a grim line as she surveyed his new injuries, but she wisely chose to say nothing at all, which John appreciated immensely. This wasn't the first time he'd come to her in such a condition. Sometimes, the woman let him hide there if he knew Alfie was looking for him. Miss Morstan never asked questions, and John knew without her saying anything at all, that he had a safe haven if he ever needed one.

"I was wondering if I could use the loo? I promise I won't take but a moment." John couldn't help fidgeting under the woman's keen, blue gaze. He plucked at his fingerless, tattered gloves and shifted his weight between his feet, feeling like the grime on the bottom of his shoes.

The woman shucked the somber façade for a cheerful veneer with the ease of one simply changing masks, and smiled brightly at the young male. "Of course, love; go right ahead, and call me Mary, please."

'Mary,' John contemplated, 'a beautiful name for a beautiful woman.

John nodded, going to wrap his arms round the butterfly wings flapping away in his belly, but then thought better of it when he remembered his injuries. His stomach was probably all bruised up, and he hoped that whatever client he serviced that night would not take offense.

"Right, thanks Mis- Mary," John stammered out, face and ears burning what he was sure was an alarming shade of pink. He smiled again and then scurried off to an unobtrusive door at the back of the store, barely noticeable next to a stack of dusty boxes and an unorganized shelf of water stained books. 

It was a small bathroom, made solely for the purpose of doing your business and not much else. John had spare room to turn a full circle, but his slight frame made it a bit easier to manoeuvre himself in the small space.

His reflection was ugly and dissatisfying to the eye. John's large, unsightly nose was not broken, thank heavens, but it was red and puffy, not taking into account the dried blood circling around the rim, and trailing lazily down his philtrum.

His blond hair was greasy and disheveled, overgrown and probably smelly. John stared at the sorry sight he made, and the sunken, tired blue eyes reflected back at him with blatant disgust.

The skin round his eyes were baggy and dark. There were no sleeping on the streets of London, lest he wake up in some unfamiliar place with a bleeding arse, and the mind-numbing fear that he'd possibly contracted any number of diseases attributed to unsafe sex. 

Fortunately for John, there was a clinic not too far from the local shelter that offered check ups and blood tests for people like him. He can remember when he'd wanted to be a surgeon, and help save lives, but now it was all a pipe dream. After the death of John's parents, the weight of their debt settled over him like a dark, inescapable void, sucking up any and all hope of making a life for himself. Any money John made 'legally' would immediately go towards the debt of his late parents.

Years ago, his sister, Harry, had gone ahead and topped herself before she'd had any real taste of how bitter their life would become. John was essentially, in every sense of the word, alone.

He made quick work of washing up with the flower scented hand soap, scrubbing his body with deft, clinical hands. At this point, it was just a tool to get what he needed to survive; if he wanted to live, that was how he had to look at the situation. The cool water nipped his skin, but John ignored it, focusing instead on the expanse of clean skin left in place of grime. The water, where the basin drained, was dark, and combined with the soap, sludgy and thick.

John reached for his bag, where he kept his only change of clothes for nights like these. A pair of denims, though threadbare, hugged his lower body like a second skin to provide an alluring picture. The t-shirt was a plain black, but also tight around his torso. When John lifted his arms, he could see each rib in stark relief against the dark fabric. Underneath it, John's stomach was an acrylic painting; all mottled indigo hues and fluorescent reds. He hoped that whatever he had to do that night would not require shedding any clothes.

John took one last moment to stare at his reflection. He didn't have much stubble; his father used to tell him that eventually he'd grow that Watson-esque beard all the ladies fawned over, but he was eighteen now, and still no sign of the fabled facial hair.

His face was smooth and boyish; John hated it. Maybe if he was hideous, all the grimy lads wouldn't give him any shite, and he'd be able to carry on unbothered. Without the looks, however, he certainly wouldn't be able to pay for a decent meal here and there. It was just as much a curse as it was a blessing.

John emerged from the restroom with a sheepish grin pasted on his lips. He'd taken longer than he was meant to, but Mary didn't seem at all perturbed by it. She flashed John a reassuring smile before turning her attention back to the only other patron in the store.

John hadn't even noticed the man, but looking at him, he wondered why that was. The newcomer was not at all ordinary, and his presence, alone, sucked up all the air in the room.

The man was tall and resplendent in a black, wool Belstaff coat that lengthened and flattered an already long, graceful form. Dark, brown curls framed a pale face and the sharpest set of cheekbones John ever had the pleasure of laying eyes on. What John found peculiar, however, were the slanted, opalescent eyes currently flickering over his person with keen interest. The man's sumptuous lips were pursed in a prim line and his expression was otherwise unreadable.

This was the kind of man John wouldn't mind pleasing for the night.

The stranger was standing at the counter with the oddest array of knick knacks, bargaining, John assumed, with the amused shopkeeper. 

The moment ended with a purposeful clearing of the throat from Mary, and John reluctantly pulled his gaze away from the striking newcomer. He smiled genially at the costumed woman and hitched his pack further up on a bony shoulder, feeling a mite better than he had when he'd come in. "Ta, Mary, you've been wonderful. Merry Christmas."

Mary waved him goodbye, though there was a somber look in her eyes that stopped John at the threshold. "John," she said softly, in a low voice that nestled into his chest and laid eggs. Rarely did she call him by his Christian name, but obviously, she wanted to emphasize how important her next words would be. Suddenly, he felt, acutely, the twin gazes boring into him. "Do me a favour, and take care of yourself out there." 

John could feel the smile slip from his lips, and the weight of what the rest of his night would entail, also began to sink in. To know that someone cared for his well-being, was something John hadn't been afforded since his mum and dad died. He was weak in the face of Mary's compassion, and speechless; her concern was a foreign concept to him.

John returned a wooden smile, knowing the expression didn't reach his eyes. Where it was warm and comfortable in Mary's Odds & Ends, the world outside was bleak and devastating, but it was John's reality. He could only escape it for so long, before it sought him out again.

"Yeah," John finally replied, flinching at the surge of emotions he was struggling to keep down. "Yes, I'll be fine."

Without stopping to hear her reply, John swept out into the night, worried that if he stayed for one moment longer, it would take a thousand men to move him.

The air was crisp and cutting, sinking deep into his bones, and icing his lungs. John walked until he came into a familiar neighborhood; here, the dresses became revealing and the number of legal activities took a nosedive. The Christmas lights had long ago burned out here, and the holiday cheer gave way to a sense of hopelessness and despair. There were young men and women his age, even some younger, looking for work on the corner, and selling illicit drugs out of abandoned flats. Junkies crowded around burning piles of rubbish, and prostitutes beckoned men into alleys with licentious gestures, while their overseers looked on with watchful glares.

This neighborhood was depravity at its finest, and though John loathed it, this was where the work was.

John wasn't ten minutes into his Walk of Shame, when a dodgy male with a sharp-toothed, predatory grin called out to him. The man was slumped against the wall, along with a group of leering young men, all with their sights set unerringly into John. This was not an unfamiliar situation, but like the idiot that he was, John hadn't been prepared to fight off a group of horny blokes, probably doped up on any number of drugs. 

John lowered his head and prepared to pass, grinding his teeth together in aggravation. He used to fight, back when he first landed on the streets, but after what he'd seen happen to a friend, he knew that sometimes it was better to run. 

"Hey, pretty boy. I got somethin' over 'ere for you!" The man gestured lewdly in John's direction, grabbing his groin and massaging it in a gut-wrenching display. 

John ignored him and carried on, walking to a well-known spot, where he was familiar with the other poor souls selling their bodies to make ends meet. Behind him, the man cackled with his friends and called out to John again. "Fuckin' cock tease!"

John huddled further down into his coat, hoping to trap in whatever warmth he could. His breath was visible in the night air; tiny, white wisp that billowed into miniature clouds, before dissipating. John wished he could do the same.

The nightlife here was rowdy and chaotic, a class of young rebels all set on ruining whatever future their parents wanted them to have, and John couldn't help but hate them a fraction more for it. 

It was his own fault that he hadn't been watching where he was going. John was at a midway point between a row of infested, crack houses and his final destination when he was shoved harshly into the brick wall of a crumbling tenement. The slam of John's body against the rough material jarred his wounds and knocked the breath from his lungs.

There weren't many people milling about in that particular area, but the ones that were, studiously ignored the assault, choosing instead to walk away with their dead eyes fixed studiously to the ground.

For the second time that night, John found himself looking into soulless, cold eyes that held less than honourable intentions. "Fuckin' tease, walking off like that when I'm talkin' to ya! You must think you're somethin' special, eh, blondie?"

The boys behind him were rowdy, and their eyes gleamed under the streetlights with vicious exuberance of what was to come. The man's eyes slid down his body with a lecherous gaze that left his stomach plummeting nervously. "Look at you," he stated, sucking a thin, lower lip between crooked, stained teeth, "standin' there all pretty like. You weren't headed anywhere particular, were you? Gonna give me a lit’le Christmas present, eh?"

He looked up at John with mock curiosity and a blatant hunger that made John nauseous. "Sod off," he growled, trying to be brave, when all he felt was wariness and fear. Courageous: yes. Smart: not even. 

The backhand came quick and brutal, snapping John's head to the side and back against the bricks. A metallic tang was already flooding his oral cavity, and suddenly his eyes felt heavy. 

John knew if he passed out then, the men would not hesitate to take advantage of his vulnerable body.

Just as the man was going in for another strike, an unfamiliar voice cut through the chaos, and as one, everything stopped.

"Is there a problem here, gentlemen?" Simultaneously, the men turned towards the interloper, providing John with a straight-on view of the newcomer. 

_Him._

It was the gorgeous man from Mary's shop, eyeing the men up with a dispassionate expression. 

John's assailant lowered his hand, slowly, and turned to the curly-haired stranger with a cynical smile. "Well, well... Sherlock Holmes, innit? Nice of you to show your pretty face round here. Last I saw, you were turning tricks in the alley for a bit of snuff."

The man - Sherlock Holmes - returned the smile with a small one of his own. "Gillian," he said, with a nod at the thug. "Last I saw of you, Pietro was passing you round to his colleagues like a cheap whore. Something about you... misplacing his cargo, was it?"

The men suddenly fell quiet, looking to Gillian, but John didn't know if they were looking to see their leader's reaction, or for him to disprove Holmes' declaration.

Gillian was red in the face, and up close, John could hear his teeth grinding against one another. "Sod off, you fucking freak! Can't you see we're busy 'ere!"

Holmes scoffed, flicking his eyes over Gillian with an unimpressed glare. "Yes, obviously, Gillian. You've finally sunk low enough to begin slumming with children half your age, and molesting unsuspecting citizens," Holmes sniffed, gesturing lazily to John, who was slumped exhaustedly against the wall. "Very busy, indeed."

Gillian growled, positively vibrating with barely restrained fury, "Holmes, you prick! Carry on, or I'll-"

"Or you'll what," Holmes cut in, though now his velvet baritone lowered to a soft, deadly cadence that made John's heart pick up in a stuttering staccato rhythm. The man stepped forward and into Gillian's personal space, looking for all the world like someone with nothing to lose. The man was a nutter! He was completely outnumbered, yet stood fearless and daunting before these thugs, like some dark knight. If John hadn't been as grateful, then he would have thought this a rather cheesy, rom-com movie moment. 

Gillian blanched at the underlying threat, backing up a step in order to regain his composure, and, of course, the tatters of his dignity. Finally, he bared his teeth in a snarl, shoving past Holmes and away from John. "Yeah fuck you, nancy-boy," he spat, turning his bloodshot glare on John again. "I'll be seein' you soon, blondie."

Gillian shoved through his henchman and stomped off, leaving a horde of confused, high teenagers stumbling behind him. 

John turned to the stranger after watching the group round the corner, regarding him cautiously, as the man did the same. 

"You've a bit of -," Holmes cut off, gesturing to the corner of his lips, and John quickly caught on, swiping the sleeve of his frayed coat over his mouth. It was stained a russet color when he pulled it away.

John nodded, turning to spit a glob of blood out on the pavement, feeling dizzy and out of sorts. "Thanks," he murmured, to which the man just shrugged impassively.

John pulled himself away from the wall, ignoring the throbbing pain emanating from his jaw. It wasn't the first time he'd gotten roughed up by some fly guy on the streets, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. "Well, I'd better get going."

His stomach was empty and his body was sore; John couldn't think of a better idea than turning a trick or two for a bit of cash, and buying himself some hot food.

John turned to walk away, but that calm voice froze his steps, and he couldn't help but listen when the man spoke. "You might want to reconsider your plans for the night. I'm sure Gillian has less than ideal plans if he comes across you again."

John sighed, knowing the man was right, but he couldn't go another night off measly scraps and rain water. He needed something solid, and John knew the Work was the only means to a full pocket.

He turned back to Holmes, feeling his resolve begin to splinter under the intense scrutiny. "I can risk it," he argued, "I need food."

Holmes was quiet for a moment, before he spoke. "Come on. I'll feed you."

-

Holmes took John to a quiet little café a fifteen minute cab ride away from the neighborhood. 

The ride had been a quiet one, save for the rumble of John's complaining belly. One would usually find those things amusing, but Holmes' penetrating gaze was only dark and pensive. John didn't look back, but he could see Holmes in the reflection of the window, tapping away on his phone, though pausing intermittently to spare John a glance.

Once inside, John felt the tension in his body unravel like a coil, and he breathed a sigh of relief as the scent of fresh food invaded his senses. It smelled like mulled wine and mince pies, fresh cranberries and brandy butter. 

Holmes chose a table for them in a corner by the window, before going up to the cashier to place an order. John surveyed the café, noticing that there were only two other patrons at the late hour, one of which looked to be sobering up over a hot cuppa.

Soft music played from obscure, overhead speakers, and the luminescent glow of the café left John melting back into the bench. When Holmes returned, John was a blink away from nodding off, but as soon as the man began skewering him with his keen gaze, he found himself alert once more.

John cleared his throat, crossing his arms protectively over his chest, with some discomfort. "So," he began with a weary disposition, meeting that hawk-like gaze with a sharp one of his own, "how did you know where to find me?" 

John sat back once he'd gotten the question out, suddenly curious about this strange man who'd saved his arse in more ways than one. Holmes shrugged, a ghost of a smile pulling at the corners of his lips. "I followed you," he stated simply, cutting through the mess and getting straight to the point. 

John smiled, though wondered if he should be alarmed by that confession. Ordinary people didn't just follow random strangers unless they had it out for them, but then again, this man was turning out to be anything but ordinary.

"Why," John asked after a moment, finding that he was more than eager to hear Holmes' reply.

"You had trouble written all over you," he returned, and now there was a real smile threatening to break out over those beautiful, bow lips.

John grinned and ducked his head, looking up at Holmes underneath his lashes. "And you came running, didn't you?" 

Before he could stop it, John was giggling, and opposite him, Holmes' shoulder shook with quiet mirth. For a brilliant moment, it was just the two of them, in that little café, amused with the esoteric knowledge of their unusual encounter.

It wasn't long before the food was out, and John was huddled over the plate, eating as if it would be his last meal. Turkey, he noticed, and mash along with the trimmings. a Christmas meal, John thought with pleasant surprise. Vaguely, he thought that he should be embarrassed, eating like that in front of an extremely attractive man that he barely knew, but the realization that there was tangible, warm food sitting in front of him, far outweighed any humiliation he might have felt.

Holmes didn't say much, so they ate in silence. Well... John ate in silence. The man hadn't touched his plate of mince pies since it was placed in front of him, and John got the sneaking suspicion that Holmes didn't order it for himself.

His inkling was confirmed a few moments later, when John finally cleared his plate. Holmes simply switched them out, then sat back, waiting patiently for the younger male to finish.

When the second plate was taken away by the waitress, John sat back against the bench, exhaustion pulling his eyelids to half mast. He smiled lackadaisically at the man across from him, who was tapping steadily away at his phone. Holmes must have felt his stare, for he glanced up, smirking at John's lazy posture, and stuffed his phone away in his coat pocket.

"Are you ready," Holmes asked, already making to stand up, and John nodded in the affirmative, following the man outside.

They walked nowhere in particular, just a general direction of Sherlock's choosing. John had a million and one questions he wanted to ask the strange man, but he didn't want to disturb the tentative peace that settled between them.

Eventually, John stopped and turned to Holmes, huddling further into his coat, until only the top half of his face was visible. Holmes stopped too, though he didn't seem surprised by John's delay.

"Thank you," John said, moving closer so that Holmes could better hear him. This close, he could smell cigarettes and the smell of antiseptic lingering in the thick fabric of the Belstaff. Below it, a darker, headier scent called to John like a beacon, pulling him closer to the tall man. "Thank you for the food, and.. you know," he stammered, feeling silly.

"Yes," Holmes breathed, watching John closely, though he made no move to shorten the distance between them, "of course."

"Will you allow me to make it up to you?" For the first time in a while, John was eager to shed his clothes for someone, willingly, and not have to worry about prices and his safety. He knew that Holmes wouldn't hurt him. How John held that knowledge, he couldn't explain.

Holmes looked away, a bit flustered by the bold offer, cheeks turning a light pink under the street lights. His pale eyes glittered alluringly, and John felt the desire pulling his libido from a long slumber. "That's not necessary," Holmes stated, and John wasn't sure who, exactly, the man was trying to convince.

John slunk closer, moving into Holmes' personal space with relative ease. He could hear the tremulous sigh from the man's lips, wafting across his face, along with the scent of mint and tea. John stood on his toes and placed his lips to Holmes' ear, nudging his lips against the soft, fleshiness of the man's lobe. "But I want to."

Holmes tensed, and John was almost sure the man was going to push him away, but surprisingly, he felt a large hand settle on the small of his back with possessive finality.

It turned out that the building next door to the café, housed Holmes' flat; 221 Baker Street, it read. 

Once inside, things began to move swiftly between them, and John found himself sandwiched between the wall and Holmes' solid chest. It was glorious, and John couldn't help but to fall into him. Holmes backed him up the stairs clumsily, all the while, plundering his mouth with a clever and agile tongue that left John putty in his hands.

The snogging session was halted briefly when Holmes had to fish out his keys and unlock the door, but continued just as soon as the door closed behind them.

In between kisses, John could see the flat was cluttered with large paper maps pinned to walls over antiquated wallpaper, and the floor was littered with books and periodicals with no particular organizational method. Over a chaotic work desk, a bison skull with large headphones thrown over, stared sightlessly out into the room, as did a human skull resting on the mantle. Perplexed, John spared it a second look, wondering if, perhaps, it was real. Besides a little garland over the mantle, there wasn't much in the way of decorations. It was obvious that Holmes lived alone, and he hadn't planned on company. 

Holmes' hands were just as greedy as his lips, venturing over his body with care and expertise, and kneading his skin into submission. Deft hands were working at the button and fly of John's denims, pushing them down, down, down, and over his feet. John hadn’t worn any pants underneath, so now he stood, vulnerable and naked from the waist down before his striking lover. Holmes had yet to reach for his t-shirt, and was in no great hurry to, John assume. He didn't know how Holmes knew about the bruises, but he found himself grateful for the man's insight. 

"Sherlock, my name is Sherlock," Holmes whispered into his ear, as if John was voicing his thoughts into the air, "I want to hear you screaming it, later."

John groaned, pushing Sherlock back onto an old, brown leather couch pushed against the far wall, and climbed skillfully into his lap, managing to avoid jostling the hard cock pushing insistently at those tailored trousers.

The brush of a fully clothed body against his naked skin was delicious, and left John hard and wanting. Sherlock reached up and tangled long, thin fingers into his hair, kissing John with a turbulent force that reminded the younger male of the blossoming, aching bruise on his cheek. He gave back just as much as he got, forcing Sherlock to snog him harder with an insistent hand buried in a nest of silken curls. 

Sherlock ground up against John, searching for relief, but John wasn't ready to give it to him. He didn't want this to be a quick shag, like it was when he had no choice but to sell his body. He wanted this to be a fuck he would never forget.

Sherlock's hands were kneading his arse cheeks, grabbing handfuls of John's flesh and pulling him closer to his body. John's cock leaked pale, milky fluid on the dark fabric of Sherlock's short, creating a damp trail wherever it touched. 

His body was on fire, quivering with the force of his desire to take all that Sherlock would give him. John didn't think he could want someone so much, in so carnal a way. Since his exile to the streets, John hadn't used his body in any other way, but as a means to get what he needed to survive. Sex with strangers was rarely pleasurable, and more often than not, John was used quickly, and brutally and cast away like a leper as soon as the client got off. 

Now, he felt the body beneath him as keenly as a limb, an attachment of his own. John needed Sherlock to fill him up, make him feel something, again.

Sherlock's tongue ran over his clavicles, which pressed against his skin in stark relief stark, and down his chest in reverent, open mouthed kisses. John pressed his hips forward in wanton abandon, asking for something more, pushing the man further. 

Sherlock wrapped an arm around John's waist and turned them, so that the smaller male was lying docilely beneath him. John allowed his legs to fall open in a prurient display of submission, staring, but keeping his hands obediently at his sides.

Sherlock's eyes flit around like a mockingbird, taking in every single detail of the moment. Those pale, opalescent eyes followed the rise and fall of John's chest as his breathing picked up; the subtle drive of the blond's hips, a silent plea for friction; the swell of John's lips where Sherlock's made an impression; the pale skin of his thighs, splayed open in a bold invitation. Sherlock's eyes were dark now, almost completely eclipsed by his dilated pupils, as he absorbed the scene before him.

John ached to reach out and pull the man close, but somehow he knew that Sherlock needed this moment. Maybe he was filing it away somewhere for wank material, later. It was all the same to John; he just wanted that solid body laying over him.

John knew the exact second Sherlock returned from his introspection. His eyes focused with a laser-like intensity onto John, pinioning him to the couch with paralyzing capability. Sherlock no longer appeared overwhelmed by the sensations; now he was the predator, prowling over John, lips stalking over his jutting erection with tantalizing puffs of air.

Before Sherlock could take him in his mouth, John placed a firm hand on the man's shoulder. "Wait," he gasped quietly,"wait. I've been - I mean I don't know if they... I'm clean, last I checked, but I don't want to risk it." 

John could almost feel like he was in a normal relationship, and he was simply having sex with his lover, but those words brought reality crashing down on him. He was a homeless rentboy offering the only form of payment he had to a man that saved him from a volatile situation. It was not a love affair, nor something that would happen after that night, and the truth of it pushed John down a spiral of desolation.

Sherlock was watching him with forced neutrality, waiting for John to sort his thoughts out, but his eyes had gone cold with an emotion he was unequipped to decipher. Finally, after an interminable number of excruciating minutes for John, Sherlock sat up, then stood with graceful fluidity. He extended a hand to John, one eyebrow raised challengingly to the blond. 

John hesitated, looking reluctantly from Sherlock's face, to his hand, and back, unsure and feeling vulnerable.

Slowly, he slipped his hand into the larger one held out for him, and allowed Sherlock to pull him up and off the couch. Without further ado, Sherlock lead John to hallway a with two doors; one to the left of them, and one, also, directly at the end of the hall.

Sherlock pulled them to the door at the end of the hall, opening it to a, surprisingly, neat bedroom and a large bed covered in champaign-coloured silk sheets and a soft down that John would bet what precious items he had to his name, would feel just as glorious on his skin as they looked. 

Sherlock pulled John to the bed and gently pushed him down to sit on the edge, kneeling between his legs with ease, as if he'd done it many times before. Beside them, Sherlock reached into a side table to retrieve a column of foil packets and a moderate sized bottle of lubrication.

After he'd placed the items on the bed next to them, Sherlock pulled John's head down for another slow, sensuous kiss, imbued with all the promises he held for the night ahead. He reached over and grabbed the condoms, once they broke apart, and tore off one to open and roll onto John's weeping cock.

John arched his hips under the feel of those long, talented fingers stroking his penis with controlled ardor. Slowly, Sherlock lowered his head to John's covered cock, never releasing John from an entrancing, heated stare as his lips gently kissed the head of his penis. It was tender and intimate, the devotion he bestowed upon John, as he sucked his throbbing member further between his swollen lips. 

John moaned, his chest rising and falling sharply with every breath. It was pleasure and torture, the need for relief locked in a furious struggle with delayed gratification. John would take any form of punishment that Sherlock could mete out, as long as by the end of it, he'd be coming with the man's prick inside of him.

Sherlock hooked his hands around John's thighs with a tight, immovable grip, pulling him further to the edge of the bed and into his awaiting mouth, hungrily. John leaned back on his elbows to support his top half, reveling in the avidity in which that warm, all-consuming orifice was devouring his erection. 

This was purely for his fulfillment, not just some quick, passionless blowjob that would leave John feeling cheap and bereft. It was worship, a veneration of his body like he'd never experienced; the constriction of Sherlock's throat over his shaft as he sucked him deeper, the feel of the man's velvet tongue caressing the veined ridges of his cock. John didn't want to think about the aftermath of such a devastating encounter with this strange man, but he had an inkling that Sherlock would be on his mind long after the night was over. 

Vaguely, John recognized his own broken, ardent moans through cotton-filled ears. All he could focus on were those quicksilver eyes watching him with predatory potency. God, what John wouldn't give to have Sherlock staring up at him that way every day of his life. Never had he felt as complete as he did in this stranger's arms. 

When Sherlock pulled away, John was mesmerized by the thin strand of saliva that left them connected. The poignant scent of sex hung heavily in the air, stifling and heady. He found it hard to breathe, seeing Sherlock so disheveled, those dark curls creating a corybantic halo around his flushed face. The connection was broken when Sherlock leaned up to place a soft peck on the corner of John's lips, where the laugh lines were beginning to fade. It was discomfitingly familiar, and John could feel his stomach bottoming out at the touch.  
With gentle hands, Sherlock began to push him further back on the bed, with his feet still hanging over the side. John sighed, arching his hips up, askance, in search of bold fingers and a slick, hard cock against his own.

Sherlock ran his hands down and around John's thighs and pushed them up, so they spread wide around the brunet's narrow hips and bent at the knees. 

John was so wrapped up in this bloke, feeling wanton and overwhelmed, and ready to be taken. John didn't think he ever wanted anything this badly. Sod food and shelter; sod Alfie and Gillian; this is what he needed. 

Sherlock stopped and stared down at him from where he knelt between John's legs, eyes dark and opaque. John was speared by that one look, flayed open and dissected under pale, ever-changing eyes. There was that acute sensation of falling, yet John had never been more there than in that moment. It was wondrous and brilliant, and John thought he might just throw himself from Tower Bridge if he couldn't have Sherlock right this second.

After a tense, silent exchange, Sherlock finally took mercy on John, and spoke. "May I," he entreated, voice rough and throaty with arousal. Sherlock's hands mapped over his clothed chest, thighs, legs, with sure hands, drawing interconnecting lines over John's warm, blushing flesh.

John nodded, enthusiastically, unable to put into words how ready he was to feel Sherlock moving inside of him. "God, yes," he whispered, reaching up a hand to finger the buttons on Sherlock's shirt, needing to feel the man's skin against his. "But first, let's get this off."

Sherlock stood, not wasting any time on himself, and in the blink of an eye, John was watching him peel off those close-fitted trousers. Sherlock standing there, starkers, was a glorious sight. He was Praxiteles' Apollo; a long, sinewy form, deceptively delicate, if not for the wiry muscles underneath. The expanse of pale skin made him look almost angelic in the darkness of the room, yet the sinful gleam in his eyes proved differently. 

John stared up at him demurely, suddenly insecure as this man regarded him with admiration. What would Sherlock possibly want with a young, homeless screw-up that occasionally sells his body for a warm meal?

Sherlock stalked forward, eyes intent on the young man reclining on the bed, before he reclaimed his position, kneeling between John's knees.

The first feel of Sherlock's fingers skating the skin of his perineum and down to his anus, was tentative and venturing. John closed his eyes, trying not to remember the last time someone touched him down there. It wasn't for pleasure, and it hadn't been with his consent. With all the negative connotations that came with sex, for John, he wondered why it was that he felt so lax with someone he'd just met. He knew nothing about Sherlock, and yet, here he was, accepting this man between his legs with the utmost confidence that he wouldn't do anything to hurt John. 

The feel of long, thin fingers preparing him, moving inside of him, pulled a delighted gasp from John's lips. When had it ever felt this good, he wondered, being dismantled so carefully, so slowly. Sherlock watched his face closely as he worked John's hole looser with benevolent fingers, his own lips parted slightly in wonder and arousal. His dark fringe sat slick and tousled on his forehead. God, he was so beautiful, it hurt to look at.

Sherlock pulled away after three fingers, to roll a condom over his own straining erection. He positioned himself between John's spread thighs, looking once more at the smaller male for a signal of some kind, face unsure.

John reached up and wrapped a hand around that long neck with a reassuring squeeze of affirmation, and tugged Sherlock forward. The kiss, this time, was less than gentle, fueled by restrained passion and the knowledge that they only had one night to get this right. Slowly, Sherlock pressed forward, breaching John's hole with a small, choked moan.

John pressed his feet to the small of Sherlock's back, encouraging the man to go deeper, press harder. "It's all right," he murmured, breaking the kiss, "I won't break. Fuck me."

Beneath his hands, John could feel Sherlock shiver at the words, and his hips picking up pace beneath his arse. Having Sherlock inside of him was nothing short of magnificent, and each thrust left him desperate and aching more, if that were even possible. 

Sherlock sat back on his knees and wrapped large hands around John's hips, driving forward uncontrollably in movements that hitched John up every push, and knocked the breath from his lungs. 

Sherlock's face was a mosaic of expressions, ranging from intense concentration, to admiration, desperation and arousal. His pale eyes were bright and feverish in the darkness of the room, his skin wet with sweat. John arched up to meet every thrust, throwing his head back in pleasure and pain, and confusion at the clutter of emotion clouding his thoughts. How was he meant to go back to the streets after having a taste of this? This was not supposed to be anything other than gratitudinous sex, but it was immeasurably more than that. This was intimate and frantic, and familiar on so many levels, and the tenderness of it stumped John where he lay. 

He could feel his orgasm rushing through his body like waves, pouring over him, intensifying when Sherlock finally wrapped a hand around his cock and stroked. John was slick from pre-come and Sherlock's skin against his felt like satin. 

Sherlock was pounding into him now, hunched over John's body until they were eye to eye, and the connection was so strongly present, John could feel the electricity zing through his body like a current, raising the hair on his arms. 

Finally, John could feel that his orgasm was imminent as he thrust up into Sherlock's hand and down onto his shaft. He tensed up, as the orgasm crashed over him like a tidal wave, overwhelming and completely encompassing. John could feel Sherlock's thrust becoming more frantic, until the rhythm of his hips broke into sporadic pushes, loud, deep groans emanating from his throat.

God, if he hadn't felt his soul leave his body for a moment, because this couldn't have been anything other than a sweet, peaceful death. It was brilliant and genuine, something John hadn't been privy to in a long time. 

Sherlock was collapsed exhaustedly over John's come-painted chest, breathing heavily where his nose nuzzled the smaller male's collarbone. John too, was catching his breath as he stared up at the ceiling, praying for the strength to be able to walk away when the time came. 

-

It was just hitting dawn when John opened his eyes the next morning, more comfortable than he'd been in a long time, and deliciously sore.

The night before was nothing short of amazing, and John couldn't help wanting to stay snuggled in the warmth of Sherlock's body for as long as he could manage, but he knew if he did, he would never want to leave. 

Snippets of later in the night flashed through John's mind. Waking in the early hours for another round of sex; Sherlock pushing John onto his belly as he slid into his body, hips circling in a slow, sensual dance that left John a wreck underneath him. Afterwards, John wanted to weep at the possibility that he would never have this again, but Sherlock snogged him, leaving John with no doubt about where he was and with whom. 

Now, the light of day brought with it new worries. It was Christmas day, so there wouldn't be many people out, save for the lonely few. The shelters were probably full and the food nearly gone, so John packed away hopes of a hot Christmas dinner.

Beside him, Sherlock slept on, sprawled over the width of the bed like a starfish, all long limbs and alabaster skin. One arm was cast out limply to the side, where John used to be. 

John smiled placidly and stood to find his clothes, contemplating his next move. Risk returning to Gillian’s neighborhood, or an unfortunate run-in with Alfie. Neither of his options sounded favourable to John's overall welfare, so he devised a plan to walk as far as he could, but close enough to still have the advantages of work in the city. 

John zipped his denims and grabbed his pack, digging through it for his smelly coat. It was thick enough to protect his skin for the cold, smell notwithstanding. Maybe if he made enough money one night, he could purchase a new on-

“I play the violin when I'm thinking.” John stood up straight, turning to stare at the bed where Sherlock was previously sleeping, but when he peered over now, the man was sitting up in bed, watching him. He didn't bother with modesty, and allowed the sheet to fall away as he got out of bed. He began stalking towards John, head cocked the slightest bit to the left like a reptile. “Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you?”

Sherlock was standing so close now that John had to crane his neck to see the tall bastard’s face. “Um, I'm sorry - what?”

“Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

The words gave John pause, in which the sentence filtered slowly through his brain, catching on the word ‘flatmates’. John exhaled breathily, not sure if he’d heard correctly, because surely, this man who knew almost nothing about John wasn't offering him… a home. 

“I'm sorry, I-,” John stopped, swallowed before continuing, “I'm not sure I understand.”

The man rolled his eyes before his expression grew soft as he placed his large hands on John's sunken shoulders. He pursed his lips, and for a moment, John saw a flash of uncertainty before the man forged ahead. “What I mean to say is, I need a flatmate, and you aren't a complete idiot,” Sherlock elaborated. 

John's eyebrows lifted nearly to his hairline at the backhanded compliment, which he still wasn't completely sure wasn't an insult. “Um, thanks, I guess.”

John wanted to know why. What was so special about him that this stranger would offer him something he hadn't had in years? The comfort of a home and companionship, which begged the question: what was in it for Holmes?

John stepped away, unsure of himself and Sherlock, after his proposal. “What do you want in return?” It came out a bit sharper than he’d meant, but Sherlock didn't blink before replying as if he’d already known what John was going to ask. 

“In my line of work, I'm in need of an assistant. You’d be well compensated and have a roof over your head should you accept.”

It was too good to be true, and yet John found himself hoping for it nonetheless. If it turned out to be true, then it would be better than any Christmas gift John could ever receive. “And last night,” John asked reluctantly, “will there be more of that.”

Sherlock thought for a moment, looking down, and when his eyes flicked up the meet John's again, they were heavy-lidded and heated. “That's up to you. I don't require sex, but I'm not opposed to it.”

John felt relief that he wouldn't be forced into sex, but most of all, it was freeing that he didn't have to use his body any longer if he were to accept Sherlock's offer. It only made the man more desirable, and John, eager to please him. He was startled and wary, yes, but no matter how hard John searched, there was nothing but sincerity in Sherlock's eyes, and he didn’t seem like a man to take such things lightly.

Sherlock wasn't pushing him to answer, and John wasn't rushing to, but he already knew that he would accept. The moment they stumbled through the door, 221B Baker Street felt like home, and John didn't want to leave the relative comfort of the flat to turn back to the streets. He wanted a home, he wanted a real life, and that’s what Sherlock was offering him.

John could feel his eyes well up in joy and pain, remembering the strife of the last year and beyond. Vaguely, he felt Sherlock pull him close, but John was lost to the wave of happiness and relief, like a physical weight. He was no longer Atlas, with the weight of the world carried on his back. He was something else he hadn't been in years; someone he hadn't remembered in so long.

Wiping his eyes, John pulled back breathing deeply. He straightened his back and held out his hand, which Sherlock looked at curiously before the puzzle piece clicked into place. 

Sherlock took his hand, shaking it once, professionally, though it lingered longer than was necessary. “Sherlock Holmes,” he introduced himself, a smile beginning at the corners of his lips.

John squeezed the hand in his, proud for the first time in years. “John, John Watson.”

Sherlock held onto his hand, letting their joined hands down to rest between them. “Well, John Watson, I'm feeling a bit peckish, but I'm not one for Christmas hams. In fact, I know a place just up the road, lovely Italian bistro. Are you hungry?”

John laughed, pulling Sherlock closer by his hand as he stood on his toes to kiss the man full on the lips. His stomach did an enthusiastic flip flop before settling down. “Starving, Mr Holmes.”

“Sherlock, please,” Sherlock whispered against his lips, “Mr Holmes is my brother.”

There was still so much to learn about Sherlock, but for now, John let himself be dragged to the shower, giggling as Sherlock stumbled mildly over his own two feet.

As the door to the loo closed on them, John leaned up for one more kiss as Sherlock loomed over him. “Merry Christmas, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Merry Christmas, John Watson.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this story and you want more, join me on [tumblr](http://lymphadei.tumblr.com). I also take fic requests there!


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